t one
or two friends, anyhow," reflected Pete as he ate his dinner. "When
she sees how Jim talks--and what he said Ma Bailey has to say to
me--mebby she'll--mebby--Doggone it! Most like she'll just hand it
back and smile and say she's mighty glad--and--but that ain't no sign
that I'm the only guy that ever got shot up, and fixed up, and turned
loose by a sure-enough angel . . . Nope! She ain't a angel--she's
real folks, like Ma Bailey and Andy and Jim. If I ain't darned careful
I'm like to find I done rid my hoss into a gopher-hole and got throwed
bad."

Meanwhile "the man downstairs" was doing some thinking himself. That
morning he had visited police headquarters and inspected Pete's gun and
belongings--noting especially the hand-carved holster and the
heavy-caliber gun, the factory number of which he jotted down in his
notebook. Incidentally he had borrowed a Luger automatic from the
miscellaneous collection of weapons taken from criminals, assured
himself that it was not loaded, and slipped it into his coat-pocket.
Later he had talked with the officials, visited the Mexican
lodging-house, where he had obtained a description of the man who had
occupied the room with Pete, and stopping at a restaurant for coffee
and doughnuts, had finally arrived at the hospital prepared to hear
what young Annersley had to say for himself.

Sheriff Jim Owen, unofficially designated as "Sunny Jim" because of an
amiable disposition, which in no way affected his official
responsibilities, was a dyed-in-the-wool, hair-cinched, range-branded,
double-fisted official, who scorned nickel-plated firearms, hard-boiled
hats, fancy drinks, and smiled his contempt for the rubber-heeled
methods of the city police. Sheriff Owen had no rubber-heeled
tendencies. He was frankness itself, both in peace and in war. It was
once said of him, by a lank humorist of Sanborn, that Jim Owen never
wasted any time palaverin' when _he_ was flirtin' with death. That he
just met you with a gun in one hand and a smile in the other, and you
could take your choice--or both, if you was wishful.

The sheriff was thinking, his hands crossed upon his rotund stomach and
his bowed legs as near crossed as they could ever be without an
operation. He was pretty well satisfied that the man upstairs, who
that pretty little nurse had said would be down in a few minutes, had
not killed Sam Brent. He had a few pertinent reasons for this
conclusion. First, Brent had